


An Ode To Sleep

by Yulicia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, i'm SOFT, the underrated tenderness of forehead kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 04:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20108986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yulicia/pseuds/Yulicia
Summary: Aziraphale doesn’t understand the appeal of sleep in the way Crowley does… but he’s willing to give it a try.





	An Ode To Sleep

“Humans sleep so often,” Aziraphale suddenly said one night.

It had been but a few weeks since the start of the Apocolypse had been halted and told to try again in a few years time. The pair were (as they often are these days) in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

The room had been silent for hours. Crowley, who was sprawled surprisingly gracefully across the bookshop’s backroom couch and had been deep into stirring arguments on Twitter, looked up.

“What? What brought that on?”

Aziraphale, comfortably settled in his armchair, shrugged. He put down his book - a heavy tome of a thing - and gestured towards the windows, specifically towards the night sky and the quiet streets outside.  
“They spend so much time asleep it’s a wonder they get anything done.”

“Wonderful little critters, those humans,” Crowley replied, a little lost.

“Yes, indeed.”

There was a pause. Crowley thought the conversation was over and he returned to his internet mischief. He was so close to getting this guy with 9 followers and a cartoon woman as his icon to say something bannable. He’d assumed Aziraphale had reopened his book until the angel spoke again.

“Should I sleep?” He asked.

“Uhhh,” Crowley said intelligently. “If you want to?”

Aziraphale’s lips were pressed together tightly in thought. He frowned. “You sleep.”

“I do.”

“You don’t _need_ to sleep.”

“I don’t.”

Aziraphale, with hands clasped across his chest, tapped his fingers in thought. “Why do you sleep?”

Aziraphale picked up his mug from where it sat on the desk beside him. He blew on the miraculously still hot cocoa and took a sip.

Crowley’s mouth opened to answer but no words came out. He made a strangled noise before he spoke. “Why do you eat? You don’t have to do that either.”

Aziraphale looked down at the mug in his hands. He tipped his head to the side, eyebrows raising. “Ah, I see your point. It is… pleasurable, then?”

Crowley cleared his throat, feeling himself grow a little warm. “Sure.”

“I should try it,” Aziraphale mused. “See what all the fuss is about.”

Crowley, realising his contributions to this conversation where quickly running dry and that Aziraphale was mostly talking _at_ him rather than _with_ him, simply nodded.

“I’ll be off, then,” Aziraphale said, moving to stand.

Crowley flung his legs off of the arm of the couch in a flurry. “What? Now?”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale said. “No time like the present after all.”

Crowley blinked. “Right. Goodnight, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled and gave him one of those intoxicatingly adoring looks. Crowley felt all melty and momentarily forgot how to think.

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

And with that Aziraphale had disappeared deeper into the shop. There was a winding mess of stairs hidden in the back of the shop that lead to a small apartment that held barely more than a kitchenette and bedroom that Aziraphale never used, truthfully. Crowley was sure the last time he’d seen someone go up there was sometime in the 80’s. There could be anything up there.

“Right. Well,” Crowley mumbled to himself.

There was a little fern in a pot sitting on Aziraphale’s writing desk, positioned cozily next to the telephone. It had been from Crowley; a ‘_yay we’re still alive_’ gift post almost Apocalypse. It had been the healthiest and the greenest of the bunch and it knew damn well it would have to stay that way.

The fern had once been thrilled (as much as a fern could be at least) that it was given to the angel. But then Crowley ended up staying in the bookshop just as much as he stayed in his flat and the poor plant hadn’t been able to catch a break. And honestly, it was only through the threat of Crowley that the fern thrived here. The angel was kind and full of love but he was a rubbish gardener.

The fern, the only other occupant in the room, now felt Crowley’s gaze upon it.

“I should follow him, shouldn’t I?” Crowley asked the fern. The fern, being a fern, said nothing.

“Something dreadful could happen to him,” Crowley mumbled. “Could get himself, I dunno, caught in the covers… or something.” He was quickly convincing himself. Not that he was difficult to sway, of course. “Best go check on him.”

Crowley moved suddenly to stand. The fern trembled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Crowley snapped at the plant. “Should have you thrown into the streets. You’re lucky he likes you.”

The fern knew this and was grateful.

“‘_Don’t be cruel to the greenery, Crowley_,’” Crowley muttered, doing a dreadful yet reasonably recognisable impression of Aziraphale.

Crowley stood and made his way further into the bookshop and up the creaky stairs. He could already feel the dust and age of the place from down here. When he reached the top he found Aziraphale standing there looking forlornly at the bed.

“Did the bed say something nasty?” Crowley joked. “Tell you the bakey down the road burned down?”

Aziraphale turned at the sound of his voice and gave a nervous huff of a laugh.

“Nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale answered. “Well, simply, I got up here and realised I don’t have the darndest idea of what to do.”

Aziraphale paused, frowning suddenly. “The bakery didn’t really burn down did it?”

“No, angel.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale sighed. “I rather like that place. They do lovely petit fours…”

“We can go tomorrow when they open,” Crowley promised.

Aziraphale lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, really? I’d like that. You really must try the baked meringue, it’s quite lovely.”

Crowley, who trusted no one's recommendations but Aziraphale’s, gave a smile. He’d never had a sweet tooth but in the food department Aziraphale had never let him down before.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Weren’t you going to sleep?”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale said. “I… may need your help.”

“My help,” Crowley deadpanned.

“Yes, well, you are something of an expert in these matters.”

Crowley snorted. “Hardly.”

Aziraphale gave him a pointed look. “You slept for a century, my dear.”

“Point taken.”

Crowley surveyed the room. It was, as predicted, covered in dust. It was also mostly empty other than the bed and a nightstand beside it carrying a book which, by the looks of it, must have been left up here some time in the 19th century. It, too, was coated in dust. The place made Crowley want to sneeze just looking at it.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the dust was cleared. Aziraphale gave him a wide-eyed look.

“Is that a good idea?” Aziraphale asked.

“What?”

“Miracles,” Aziraphale said quietly, as though he was afraid someone would hear him. “Doesn’t Hell keep a record of such things?”

Crowley shrugged. “Hell has never cared much. There was always more emphasis on the souls captured than the means taken to do so. Besides, I have a suspicion that my name has been wiped from their books, so to speak.” Crowley frowned. “Have you not been performing miracles?”

Aziraphale looked away guiltily. “No.” He pressed his lips together, clearly lying. He huffed. “Well, nothing major anyway.”

“No returning missing limbs?”

Aziraphale barked a laugh. “No. That was never my style, anyway.”

Crowley moved to the bed. The duvet was a light beige and the covers below it were a classic cream. It was painfully plain, but also painfully Aziraphale. Crowley could only be glad that none of it was tartan.

He had to wonder if Aziraphale had chosen this bed himself. It can’t have come with the bookshop, could it? The bookshop was (compared to many of its neighbours) practically ancient. Had Aziraphale commissioned this himself? If he had that only created more questions as Aziraphale for many, many years had had absolutely no need for a bed. Had he been expecting a sleeping guest?

Aziraphale must of chosen the bedspread, at least. It was too… him. It was soft and warm and subdued in that way that made you think of home. It was unthreatening and unassuming, nice and cozy. Aziraphale must have chosen the soft sheets, the plush duvet, even the nightstand by the side. Crowley wondered if anyone had ever slept here. Would the covers still hold the traces of Aziraphale’s touch or would they be sullied by the scent of another?

By the time Crowley shook his head and returned back to reality from his tangent several awkward moments had passed. Crowley blinked, more glad for his sunglasses than he had been in years.

Filled with the sudden flair for the dramatic Crowley grabbed the duvet and flung it back, exposing the mattress below. He motioned to the bed. “Get in.”

“Then what?”

“Go to sleep.”

Aziraphale seemed startled. “That’s it? Seems a bit easy doesn’t it?”

“It’s not supposed to be hard,” Crowley said. _Though it can be_, he thought but didn’t add.

“Right. Well. Best get to it then,” Aziraphale sounded more like he was hyping himself for a speech than going to bed.

Aziraphale approached the bed with wary confidence. He toed off his shoes and went to sit on the bed. He stopped as Crowley made a sudden halted noise.

“You’ll want to change,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked down at himself and frowned. “Is there something wrong with this?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered. “Well, no, not _wrong_ with it—“

Aziraphale must have sensed a babble coming on because he cut Crowley off. “What would be more suitable?”

Crowley clicked again and Aziraphale’s coat, waistcoat and pressed shirt became a pair of blue cotton pajamas.

“Oh!” Aziraphale had gasped, unprepared for the change. He ran a hand along the sleeve, toying with it. He turned back to Crowley and gave him a shy smile. “I should say thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley replied. “No, really, don’t.”

Aziraphale gave him a raised eyebrow and a knowing. “Of course.”

Aziraphale turned to the bed and, with a little bit of wriggling, settling himself beneath the duvet. While he did so Crowley turned to leave.

“I’ll get the light,” Crowley said, reaching for the switch.

Aziraphale shot up, leaning on his elbows. “Where are you off to?”

“Downstairs?” Crowley pointed a thumb behind him, his finger leading to the stairwell.

Aziraphale shook his head. He brought a hand up to tap at the covers beside him. “You should sleep too.”

“Wha— I don’t need to sleep.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Come sleep with me.”

Crowley had made a choked noise at that, his face flushing a deep pink. From the smug look that Aziraphale gave him he was positive Aziraphale knew exactly what he was saying. Bastard.

Crowley’s mind ran through the many, many possibilities his next actions could bring. He could say no; preserve their friendship, keep the angel at a safe distance as he always had and silently pine. Or, he could say yes. _Anything_ could happen if he said yes. Aziraphale kept looking at him and waiting. There was something in his eyes that tugged at Crowley’s very soul. His mind was made up.

With an unsure sway he moved to the bed, miracling himself a pair of black silk lounge pants. With a tentative hand he moved onto the bed. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he did so. He lay back.

Aziraphale clicked and the lights went out.

“Thought you were conserving your miracles?” Crowley teased.

“Nothing major, I said.”

Moonlight still filtered through a window by the bed. It was a soft glow, barely enough to be noticeable. It was covered by curtains but they remained mostly open - likely due to the general disuse of the room. One would never need to close the curtains if one never needed the darkness they provided in the first place.

There was silence and all that could be heard was the sound of their breathing and the sound of an awfully chatty bird outside. It was still the ripe early hour of two in the morning so only She knew why it was chirping already.

Crowley counted the seconds. He did not close his eyes and he pointedly did not look at Aziraphale. He could feel the warmth of Aziraphale beside him like he was a raging fire, cozy and tucked away in someone’s antique fireplace. Crowley’s eyes were glued to the ceiling and that’s where he was planning on keeping them. He was sure he’d explode if he didn’t.

After exactly 548 seconds Aziraphale shifted.

“It’s not working,” he mumbled.

“Give it time.”

And so Aziraphale did. He gave it exactly 431 seconds more.

“I thought his was supposed to be easy.”

“It is.”

Aziraphale huffed. He squirmed, shaking the bed as he did so. Crowley became very, very aware of how close he was.

“Then why isn’t it working?”

Crowley could both feel and hear that Aziraphale had flipped to face him. He steadied himself and for the first time since laying down he looked at Aziraphale.

He didn’t explode or combust or anything of the sort. But it felt like he did. Aziraphale’s eyes were on him, their inner light only more striking in the darkness. The moonlight from the open window just barely reached him, bathing him in an ethereal glow. Not that he needed it, of course, there was certainly enough celestial glowing he could do all on his own accord.

Crowley’s fingers itched and ached. He wanted to reach out, to touch. He had been so careful not to, to avoid the one temptation he knew he would never have. But he felt his resolve crumbling. Aziraphale was forbidden fruit and Crowley was moments away from getting himself kicked out of the Garden, so to speak.

Aziraphale’s eyes, blue as the sky, were watching him lazily. His expression was soft and frustratingly inviting. Crowley wanted to scream but, knowing it would terribly inappropriate, did not.

With a burst of dumb confidence Crowley reached out a shaky hand. His touch was feather light as he ran a finger along Aziraphale cheek. He expected the angel to jump away as though he’d been burned but he had done nothing of the sort. Instead he had smiled and tilted his face closer, pressing ever so lightly against that fateful finger.

Emboldened, Crowley moved his hand from Aziraphale’s cheek to his hair. He brushed his finger along his hairline, feeling fuzzy baby-hairs beneath his fingertips. Travelling upwards he ran a hand through Aziraphale’s hair. It was soft (of course it was soft everything about Aziraphale was so wonderfully soft) and fluffier than even the most perfect cloud.

Aziraphale sighed beneath him. His eyes slowly closed, the action comfortable and unhurried. He shifted, drawing closer to Crowley.

Crowley’s hand remained in Aziraphale’s hair, stroking back and forth rhythmically. His heart swelled at the little contented huffs he heard from the angel beside him. He was growing disgustingly soft, like a marshmallow left in the fire a little too long. Hell could never find about this.

(Not that they would, of course. Hell was trying it’s best to forget all about Crowley and his seemingly terrifying immunity to holy water.)

In fact, Crowley never wanted Heaven to find out about this either. This was his. The little sighs and the soft warmth and the wonderfully sweet smiles were his and no one, not even Heaven, could take them from him.

Crowley felt a hand bump against his chest. While lost in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed that Aziraphale had fallen asleep, his breathing soft and even. There was still a hint of a smile on his lips. He looked… well… he looked like an angel.

He’d almost lost this. When he’d found this very bookshop up in flames it was as if he had lost a piece of himself in the fire. Perhaps he had; Aziraphale had always had a firm grasp over his very soul. His heart weeped at the memory.

Carefully Crowley leaned forward, dipping his press a kiss against the angel’s forehead. He prayed that Aziraphale stayed asleep as he would not have had the courage to that when he was awake and there was daylight. If Aziraphale had woken he was very good at pretending he hadn’t. Crowley’s stuttering heart pounded, but it needn’t worry.

“Goodnight, angel.”

Crowley cannot create dreams like Aziraphale can. He cannot simply will a being to dream of _“whatever they like best.”_ In this case, however, it did not matter that he couldn’t as Aziraphale’s dreams were already pleasant and filled with red-bellied serpents with penchants for sunglasses.

——

When they awoke Aziraphale said nothing of the night before yet his smile and the press of his lips told Crowley all that he needed to know.

**Author's Note:**

> pls come validate my tomfoolery i'm @yulicia_ on [twitter](https://twitter.com/yulicia_)


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